


I Remember

by twotwo_onebee_bakerst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 18:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twotwo_onebee_bakerst/pseuds/twotwo_onebee_bakerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember that, John?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Remember

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece of work on here, I hope it's okay.  
> (P.S It may hurt a little.)

"We first met in that bush, do you remember, John?" Sherlock said quietly, with a small chuckle. 

"'Who are you?' You said, asking me like you owned the bloody place! I told you exactly who I was, and exactly who you were too, remember that?  
You were hiding from Harry, because you didn't want to go home, and I was hiding from Mycroft because I'd buried his biscuits," He scoffed, smiling at the memory, 

"And we sat there for hours until mummy found us, and took us both home. But then you were back, the next day, just like I hoped you'd be. And we played pirates and doctors, and Harry was the prisoner.  
We played like that every day," Sherlock sat back in his seat, and took a deep breath

"Until you went to 'big school', of course. Mummy said I never stopped moping around when you were gone. Something's never change, I suppose.  
Then I left for Mycroft's school. I think a part of them hoped I'd be like him. I should hope I would never be so boring." He spat, and carded a hand through his grey curls, 

"I didn't see you for months, those terms were so long, John.  
But the summers, oh the summers where something worth waiting for.  
I came home and you were waiting for me by that goddamn bush.  
'Blimey! You've got tall!', you said and you laughed. And you spent that whole summer finding excuses to stand on things to level our height. Idiot." He chuckled, "always have been." 

"Not a day went by, that summer, where I wasn't with you.  
You persuaded Mycroft to let you take me to the beach, and we got chips on the pier, and watched as the tide came in and the sun went down. I remember feeling so human and so small compared to the huge expanse of ocean. And it was terrifying, but you were right there, and it was okay." He smiled at John, 

"And when we got home, you walked me to my door and I told you I liked you. And you looked sad and said you liked me too, a lot, but it was weird, because you were 16 and I was 11.  
And you kissed me on the cheek and went home, and you weren't at the bush the next day and I thought I'd scared you off," he laughed, a little sadly, 

"But then you came and called for me that evening, and that's when I knew I loved you, because my John doesn't run when he senses danger. Oh no, quite the opposite, actually.  
So I went with you to your boring party, with all your boring friends, and I deduced them all to make you laugh. And when Anderson called me a freak, you punched him right in the nose." He chuckled again, "No one dared say anything for months." 

"But then you got your first girlfriend, Sarah Sawyer, you were 19, it was just before you left school. And I found you kissing her by that bush, our bush, and that was the first night I got high.  
High as a kite when you found me, and hauled me out of the gutter. You kept me at yours overnight.  
And you broke up with her a week later, do you remember?" 

"And then you left for the army. Told me to 'clean up my act, and stop with the drugs' or I'd have captain Watson to answer to. So I did.  
Mycroft sent me to rehab, it's a bit of a blur. The nurses told him I said nothing for the first six months. I went to all the group therapy sessions, the people were so tedious, John.  
And about six months in, when I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, the nurses said I started talking - not talking, as such. Muttering, they said.  
'For John'. 

"I believe Mycroft sneered at the sentiment. But I had you, and so it didn't matter.  
Though I think I may have grown mould colonies on his secret stash.  
Not revenge, John, just levelling the playing fields." He smirked, shifted in his chair, and looked back at John. 

"Then you were shot and the world stopped.  
Mycroft did everything he could, but we didn't know if you'd survived.  
I was sent back to rehab, mummy feared I would relapse.  
But then you were fine, and I could breathe again.  
And I visited every day, but you didn't know who I was. Morphine can do that." He grimaced, as if physically hurt by the memory. 

"A few months on you moved in, and lost that silly limp of yours. You remember the limp, John? You must. Psychosomatic - Fascinating." He sighed, caught up in the memory, the chase across London, to find their murderer. 

"Oh! The cabbie, John! The very fist murder we solved together. You shot him and saved my life, I told you I knew you'd show up, you told me I didn't and that was bullshit. It wasn't.  
I knew you'd be there, to beat up the bully, to dispose of the bad guy. In a way, I was always your damsel in distress. You love that, don't you?The great Sherlock Holmes, one and only consulting detective, self-proclaimed sociopath, always in need of saving. Luckily for me, my hero is live in.  
That night we sat up like we were teenagers again. And you looked at me, suddenly serious, and you asked me what I'd be doing in twenty years, when I wasn't so able, so agile.  
And I said: 'sod it to the wind, I don't care' and you whooped and cheered like it was the most inspirational thing you'd ever heard. I think we'd had a bit to drink." He grinned at John, his beautiful John. 

"Then the wedding. Our one - we don't talk about the first, I know.  
Everyone came, remember?  
Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper, Lestrade, all our friends, John.  
I think even The Woman came to that. And she stood at the back and smirked at you, the whole way through. She left a gift, addressed to Mr I'm-not-gay Watson." He huffed another laugh and reached out to stroke John's hair. 

"And we left early, slipped out when no one was looking, and you told me you loved me over and over as you made love to me that night, remember that?  
It was the best night of my life. Though I'm sure you know that. 

"And then things were like they always were, the way they were meant to be.  
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson; just the two of us against the rest of the world.  
We solved murders, you blogged about it, and once or twice, I forgot my pants" his head hung and he laughed at the memory, shoulders shaking. It was the same laugh; the rich baritone hadn't changed with his age. Not much about Sherlock Holmes had changed at all, maybe just his heart. 

"But we were always growing old. You complained more about you back and shoulder, cases were often too strenuous, we had to retire at some point.  
So we did. And it's good. We have the bees, and the cottage, and a twenty-five year old marriage. I don't need anything more," he said, his heart ached and a lump rose in his throat,

"as long as you promise to wake up."  
A fat tear ran down his face, over the cheekbones John had always praised, and his heart pounded in his ears, 

"Because when you said you were sick, you told me not to be sad, never to be sad, remember? But I am sad, I will always be sad, John.  
I need you." His voice cracked, 

"And you said, 'Sherlock Holmes, you are the best thing that ever happened to me.'  
And I don't want to believe that. Because I hurt you, I hurt you with the drugs, I hurt you when I ran off and got hurt on cases, I hurt you when I fucking fell off Bart's bloody hospital and disappeared for two years.  
And I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." He sobbed, suddenly unable to control himself at the overwhelming sound of John's heart monitor; beeping quietly, mocking him. 

"Just please don't leave me. Please, please, please, don't leave me."  
He whispered, over and over again, into the wispy silver of John's hair. 

 

*

"Mr Holmes?" The nurse had said, putting a tentative hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder. 

"Mr Watson-Holmes." Sherlock bit back and she nodded, flustered,

"Sir, we think you should go home now. Just for a few hours, have a bath, get some sleep, we'll let you know if he wakes up." 

Sherlock nodded numbly and left.  
A black sedan had met him outside, and he was too tired to argue.  
Because of course it was bloody Mycroft. 

He didn't wash, just climbed into bed, pulling John's outmeal jumper into his chest and hugging it like he used to hug John.  
He slept for hours, reliving every waking moment he'd spent with his husband, the love of his life; his soldier, his doctor, his John. 

 

*

John Hamish Watson died in the arms of his husband, William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, on the night of September the first.  
The ghost of the words "I remember" on his trembling lips.

**Author's Note:**

> ((Sorry))  
> I hope it was okay!?  
> Tell me what you think?


End file.
